


I've been to every single book I know (To soothe the thoughts that plague me so)

by Miele_Petite



Series: Over oceans unknown (You are always with me) [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fanart, Fluff, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-11-02 08:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20676626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite
Summary: Aziraphale struggles to figure out what makes liking Crowley so wrong, while Crowley struggles to understand why he likes Aziraphale at all, and a library must burn, due to a hiccup in the ineffable bureaucracy.





	I've been to every single book I know (To soothe the thoughts that plague me so)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aaymeirah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaymeirah/gifts).

Look how desire has changed in you,

how light and colourless it is,

with the world growing new marvels

because of your changing.

-Rumi

Beelzebub sucks their teeth as they punch the lift button for the ninth floor. They are already seething and damn it all to head office they are definitely not going to be reduced to taking the stairs again. A Prince of Hell having to deal with administrative cock-ups is ridiculous of course, but strong leadership sometimes demands a direct hand in day-to-day operations, and this situation went all the way to the top, or bottom, as it were. They stand, arms crossed and buzzing agitatedly as the doors finally close, and the lift lurches upwards.

* * *

Sitting on a cool marble bench with a scroll spread out before him, Aziraphale reflects that he would like to say that his interest in reading had started innocently enough, but curiosity for knowledge might technically be the opposite of innocence, and it worries him. Also, his fascination may have gotten a little out of hand, and he's still no closer to the answer he wanted. It was technically his job to know the difference between good and evil - to draw a hard line between himself and the _other_, the fallen. But to consume so much human erudition in this way might be pushing the boundaries of his duties. And, of course the troubling bit is that this all started because of Crawley. 

Crawley. He shifts uneasily in his seat. Crawley was a demon, of course, and not someone that he should be associating with as an angel, but their interaction in Eden had been so strange he couldn't get it out of his head. When he'd slithered from the garden on other infernal errands, the angel had found himself oddly nostalgic about the fellow. He had replayed their exchange in his head in bored moments, wished _secretly _\- which was definitely not a thing he'd done before in heaven - that it could happen again. Aziraphale was still charged with guarding Eden for a while afterwards and so he'd done his duty, but posted there without humanity to observe and with time on his hands, the question of Crawley's nature had kept creeping up, unbidden. It was all so disconcerting. 

It's just that Crawley had been so pleasant. Worse, he had showed the same soft spot for mortals that Aziraphale himself had developed, and that didn't seem evil at all. And the smile he'd flashed - well, it had seemed so genuine and warm, not the obligatory professional smile you saw working with angels. There was something more real about it, and he just can't shake the image, framed by those lustrous curls, even now as he sits in the library in Alexandria. There was of course, the bother of Crawley causing the sin of eating the forbidden fruit, but he hadn't even seemed to intend any harm to the humans then, had called the expulsion _unfair_. (Weighing what was fair and what wasn't was hardly a proper line of thought for an angel, though, so he didn't dwell on that.) But Crawley_ must_ be evil, of course, he was fallen. Unfortunately Aziraphale still couldn't quite put his finger on anything concrete and say _ah yes, that's what makes him bad_, and it really bothered him. 

All that conflict had been in his head where it shouldn't be for centuries and Aziraphale wanted, desperately needed, to draw that line and know with certainty. It was no good for an angel to deal with uncertainty. He came back to the temptation, supposing as a demonic act it was the best evidence to define the demon's evil. If he could see unequivocally the badness in Crawley's action, he could see the evil in Crawley, and then everything would be fine. And so when he'd been re-posted, outside of the garden and among humanity again, he'd decided to examine the effect of that original sin.

When he looked at what Crawley's temptation had given the humans (essentially _learning)_ and what they'd done with it, he found that it could sometimes be terrible and dangerous, but it could just as often be charming, and cleverly leveraged to lead man to virtue. Thus he found himself engrossed by human ingenuity, but also still worryingly tantalized by the issue of Crawley's nature. This was some seriously muddy water. But he was a very intelligent angel, and he knew the answer must be in there somewhere, so he'd waded right in.

It had gotten easier to keep up with the evolution of human thought, though, since they'd invented writing. So marvelous, and such variety. And of course, reading made it easier to justify his interest as a way of doing as humans did, and to _blend in _as it were. Further, it gave him a better understanding of humanity, a properly angelic pursuit for a principality in his position. After a few centuries with his nose buried in clay and wax tablets or rough rolls of papyrus, he's almost managed to forget why this investigation started, and the joy of whiling away his time reading has become part of who he is. But he knows very, very deep down he is still trying to understand what it was Crawley had given to them. Only in order to find out if that's where his evil lies and truly revile him, though, he tells himself. What other business did an angel have with a demon? As his hands unroll another page in front of him, he sighs and ruminates uneasily that what he's found is that he can't really tell himself learning is evil after all. It is wholly dependent on what one does with it. What if the demon had done the good thing...? Well, he certainly can't tell him that. 

At any rate, he's tried to keep their conversations casual, as he imagines they should be between hereditary enemies, even as those meetings have become strangely more frequent. Aziraphale enjoys them, probably against his better judgement, but as an angel he still has kept very clear expectations about the fallen. They are on opposite sides, the other side doomed to failure, no doubt. But, well, there's no need to be rude, is there? Crawley certainly isn't rude to him, so where’s the harm, then, in having a little conversation? Their moments together feel like the opposite of loneliness, whatever the word for that is. Sometimes, he uses the opportunity to show the demon a particularly good bit of writing - poetry, philosophy, historical accounts they'd both scoff at for inaccuracy - partly because it really is becoming such an obsession that he wants to share it with someone, and partly because he thinks Crawley might be interested in knowing his work has wrought more than evil. And so the problem of identifying just what makes Crawley unforgivable continues to gnaw away at him, even as he finds himself attracted to the demon's companionship, and to the quickly amassing record of human lore. 

* * *

Crawley, for his part, never expected to find a kindred spirit up on earth, least of all one of those smarmy bastards from upstairs, but this one is different. Interesting, even. The angel definitely had some chinks in his armor that he could have easily exploited if he felt like it. But then conversely, the angel could have just as easily smote him at first glance, flaming sword or no. Crawley was in the mood to get smote that day, truth be told; maybe that's why he'd foolishly decided to go up there and engage an angel in conversation. But of course Azirphale hadn't attacked him. Interacting with the angel had been easy, certainly better than dealing with other demons. Hell is a place of malice, suspicion, and back-biting, but the angel hadn't brandished any ill feelings at him either. He supposes there was no need. They weren't jockeying for hierarchy, after all: they were on opposite sides, so that was that.

But what had happened next - oh, well, that was still haunting him. Aziraphale's kindness to the humans in giving them his flaming sword had shocked him, but his civility to Crawley himself had _really_ blown his mind. He hadn't felt a bit of happiness since the fall, had resigned himself to an eternity of misery - and yet, there it had been, fast as a lightning strike, a warmth in his chest as he'd stepped closer and the angel hadn't even flinched, but instead had lifted a wing, so gracefully, _to shelter him_. It couldn't have happened, he had told himself so many times since then. It was too good to be true - he must be remembering it wrong.

Later though, when Aziraphale had been assigned to foster humanity again, Crawley couldn't help but re-test those waters, enthralled by the merest scraps of kindness the angel afforded him. Each time he feels he is tempting fate, braces himself for the strike that he knows must be coming, but it never does. It is so strangely thrilling and comforting all at the same time, and though their first few encounters were purely chance* he has started deliberately seeking the angel out now, and each time he lingers longer. Doing the bidding of hell is no fun for the most part, and this illicit compulsion is so painfully bright in the darkness of his world that he's begun to crave it.

When the angel had gone all gaga about human language being written down, and more ridiculously had started reading things to him, it was just too much. On the one hand, he had been starting to see the new depths human depravity was reaching (seeds he may or may not have planted) and he hardly wanted to reflect on their thoughts. But on the other hand, the angel was using it to prompt conversation with him, and seemed genuinely interested in his reaction - as if a demon's thoughts mattered to an angel. They couldn't possibly, but it felt good anyway. The angel too, he was starting to find alarmingly adorable, with his anxious wiggles and his damned sun-bright smile. Ugh, how on earth could that be appealing, and to a demon no less? He was so hungry for attention, begging to be spoiled, and half the time Crawley felt stupidly obliged. It was madness. With humanity's growing sophistication his demonic tasks certainly weren't getting more enjoyable, though, so despite the fact he could get himself into a very large heap of trouble with hell for hanging out with an angel, after a few millennia of it he couldn't help himself anymore. 

So when the humans got the bright idea to build a library, for the purpose of hoarding their writings together, well, he might have helped it along a bit. Well, a lot, actually. Aziraphale's delight had been worth it - he'd nearly sprung his wings at the sight of it, and Crawley had gotten a commendation from Hell to boot. Not to mention the covetousness of hoarding 40,000 of anything - all that knowledge in one place, as he'd presented proudly to his co-workers downstairs, would lead so many minds astray. It hit all the highlights of sin. There were blasphemous works, accounts of men's greed and anger, their violence and envy, and of course some lusty poetry thrown in for good measure. Reading changed men's minds - it was the apple all over again. And the sheer volume of it! Well, it would lead probably slews of souls right to hell's door, he'd told them. He didn't really care, of course. He just wanted something to do that didn't involve death and destruction, and of course the ecstatic light in Aziraphale's eye's wasn't a bad result. 

He shakes his head as if to dislodge the memory, it's too dangerous for a demon to go about thinking like that. Still, while the soppy angel has spent years here, soaking in stupid Greek drama and philosophy and the like, Crawley has tried to find a way to remain in Alexandria as long as he can. So now he stands there, sulking, lurking in a garden, and trying not to head anywhere near the library. His whole body itches with a feeling he can't scratch and he knows it's loneliness, and he's repulsed by it. It's been mere weeks since he last pretended to be passing by Aziraphale and he can't go again so soon, it would be suspicious. He grabs handfuls of his hair in frustration, setting his wrist bangles jingling. There's nothing for it but to find something to drink he thinks, but before he can get down the path to the beer house he encounters an infernal messenger, who roughly shoves a note into his hands.

*God: It wasn't chance. But don't worry, Crowley will see it eventually. Sometimes it just takes my jokes a little while to land.

* * *

Earlier that day...

When the lift doors open to the airport waiting lounge that is Purgatory, Beelzebub sets their jaw and stalks purposefully to the bar. It had been, for a while now, the neutral meeting place they and Gabriel had used for settling grievances. As they make their way across the revolting carpet paneled thruway and past the limbo gift shop, they see to their annoyance that as per usual, the Archangel is already here, leaning against the bar with his hands in his pockets and a smug grin on his stupidly handsome face. They have a brief desire to wipe it off with a cricket bat.

"Your lowness." he chimes glibly, gesturing to a bar stool while sliding into the one next to it.

He could have chosen a table, Beelzebub reflects. The bar is next to empty, but they knew that watching them have to hop onto the tall stool is more amusing to him. Now they have the desire to take the cricket bat to his knees.

"Gabriel," they reply acidly, "Letzzzz get this over with."

Gabriel smiles blithely. "Of course - all in due time though." He gestures to the bartender who bustles over.

"Afternoon, sir, and zzzir, what will you have?"

"Just a spring water for me," Gabriel says, gesturing to his glorious corporation, "Holy temple and all that."

"Right," says the bartender, setting a tall glass of clear liquid in front of him on a limp cocktail napkin marked with an unassuming 'P' in Courier font. "That'll be seventeen dollars."

Gabriel rolls his eyes and tuts. Everything in Purgatory is highway robbery. But what recourse did the souls here have, really, while they waited? "Great," he said, handing over a small piece of his celestial wages. He was well paid as an Archangel; he could afford it. Besides, it's not like he had that much to spend it on, other than the magnificent upgrade to his corporation. 

The bartender turns to Beelzebub.

"The uzzzual," they buzz, "and put it on the corporate account." There is no way in heaven they are going to have to personally pay for this annoyance.

The bartender slides a bright, fruit garnished cocktail towards them with a flourish. "Sex on the beach," he says smiling, "Enjoy, zzzir!"

Beelzebub sips, enjoying for a moment the ripple of disgust on Gabriel's face, but not the drink. The beach in question was probably Clacton-on-Sea. They shrug. This is Purgatory after all: it was meant to rid you of your sins, not let you enjoy them. Anyway, mediocrity is marginally better than torture anyway. 

Gabriel laces his fingers together and leans with one elbow on the bar. "Well now then, what can I do for you?"

"You can tell me," Beelzebub replies venomously, "Where you get off using one of our convertzzz for your purposes. We had our mark all over him, he'zzz clearly damned."

Gabriel smiles sweetly. "Oh yes, we know. It must have taken years of work. We can really see what you were trying to do there."

Beelzebub narrows their eyes and mentally sends a fly spiraling to his water glass. He smugly bats it away.

"The thing is, as irredeemable as Julius Caesar is, your agent in question seems to have forgotten to check box 25B on his file, and, such a bummer, he still shows up as an available resource for our projects."

Beelzebub grimaces. They were re-filing as they sat here, but if Mammon hadn't been damned already they'd see to it that he was.

Gabriel continues, relishing his feeling of superiority, "You see, evil is always sowing the seeds of its own destruction."

"Izzz being petty angelic, then?" Beelzebub counters.

"Being _meticulous_," Gabriel replies, placidly swatting another fly from his lapel, "is a virtuous competency."

"You know full well this wazzz a simple oversight and upstairs are out of boundzzz here." Beelzebub says, hackles rising, if they had hackles.

Gabriel waves a hand, passively. "We're just furthering the great plan, you know that. Anyway, the fact that we're here means that a higher authority was willing to make some allowances on this. Should we just go ahead and let the mediator give us his decision then?"

"Fine," Beelzebub growls, turning to the bartender, "What izzz it to be?"

The bartender, a passable mixologist, very good listener to souls on the brink, but also Master of the Realm of Purgatory and mediator between Heaven and Hell puts down a glass he'd been polishing and turns to them.

"Lord Beelzebub, the mistake in the paperwork is unfortunately evident. You're losing the library and we're delaying the Roman civil war."

Beelzebub frowns and a fly that had been loitering on the garnish of their drink falls off, landing legs-up on the bar.

"However, you do retain the human soul and its subsequent works, including the hubris, adultery, and killing." He turns to Gabriel. "Archangel Gabriel, you know Heaven's involvement in this has been highly irregular and you're too late to claim this soul, nor will you be allowed to use it again once the paperwork has been re-filed which is presently in process. However, you are allowed the destruction of the library. You are also, as requested, allowed the Pax Romana to follow in order to lead souls to goodness, once Hell have officially released things to his successor."

Gabriel smiles smugly, but the bartender adds, "Octavian himself, though, is still up for grabs, of course."

Beelzebub narrows their eyes. The long game is Hell's forte. 

After the customary handshake to seal the deal, the Prince of Hell and the Archangel stride off to their respective lifts, Beelzebub planning to give Mammon a good dressing-down and jotting off a quick note to their agent in Alexandria. Gabriel also remembers quickly to drop a line to his boots on the ground, make sure that he oversees the plans as mandated.

* * *

Crawley looks down at the dispatch in his hands. "We have no regret to inform you," it starts. Well, there was another of his works undone. As he'd actually put some effort into this one, for once, though, he feels very put out. He stands there sullenly, when a sudden realization strikes him, and with eyes wide he starts running as fast as his legs can carry him in the direction of the thick smoke in the distance.

When he reaches the library, pushing past the throngs of people looking to escape, he is relieved to see Aziraphale standing safely outside, but the building is well ablaze. "Aziraphale!" he calls out, and pushes past a group of soot dusted, coughing scholars to get to him. "Are you okay?"

The angel turns, his lips pressed tight together and his eyes brimmed with tears on the cusp of spilling over. He nods, mutely.

"Look," Crawley tries to explain, "It wasn't me. I mean, it wasn't _us_. I just got a note from head office and -"

Aziraphale cuts him off. "I know," he says, dolefully, "It was us." He clears his throat and looks back at the inferno that is carrying away millions of words as they watch, and tries to compose himself in front of the enemy.

"What?!" the demon cries, "Your lot? But..." He looks on as a large chunk of roof caves in and flames arc skyward. "Isn't there anything you could do?" he asks, already knowing the answer, but really not asking it for himself anyway.

"No." the angel replies, shaking his head ruefully.

Crawley doesn't know what to say. "Oh," is all he can manage. He swallows and looks at the angel, who is now pointedly not looking at him. Against his nature he wants to offer some comfort, some refuge from the pain the angel must be feeling, but demons have neither of those things in ready supply and he doesn't know where to start.

Aziraphale looks on as the flames consume that temple to scholarly pursuits, and squints against the heat and the glare. None of this matters to Heaven, but it had mattered to him a great deal. Perhaps that's what he gets, he thinks almost bitterly, for getting caught up in human pursuits. But he can't think like this, he knows, as he swallows his sadness. Heaven is always right. He feels then the pressure of Crawley's hand on his shoulder and is suddenly stunned. He recognizes it as a human gesture of familial commiseration but he's never experienced it himself, from demon or angel. It's comforting, but reminds him that he wants comfort, and his eyes start watering again. "So much lost." he breathes, now barely able to keep his composure.

"Yes," Crawley agrees. "But not all of it, right?"

The angel furrows his brows in confusion and turns slowly to look at the demon. "No?"

"I assume you read some of it while you were in there?"

The angel nods and looks down, thinking.

"And I'll bet, angel," Crawley continues, smiling softly. "that clever as you are you remember it, hmm?"

Aziraphale nods again and looks back with a half-smile of his own. 

"Surely Heaven have already gotten what they wanted," the demon says, gesturing to the flaming chaos and ruin in front of them. "They wouldn't possibly care if, say, some copies were to show up. Especially the kind of stuff an angel would like, I mean."

A softness, a happiness, returns to the angel's face. "Doubt they'd even notice," he says wistfully.

The demon grins, and starts rummaging through a bag slung across his shoulder. He extracts a thick stack of half rolled blank papyrus, and pushes it towards the angel with a wily grin.

"Where did you get those?" Aziraphale asks.

"Nicked it off some loser," Crawley replies, not technically lying. He shoves the papers into the angel's hands. "Well, never too early to start, that's what I always say."

The angel takes the bundle and smirks at him, but somehow kindly. "When have you ever said that, foul fiend?"

Crawley doesn't reply, but grins again, snakelike eyes flashing, and then turns on his heel and leaves, disappearing into the smoke and confusion of the crowd. 

Aziraphale looks down at the papyrus in his hands. Tucked into one of the rolled edges lay a dark writing quill. Shuffling through the stack he sees that one page has some scribbling already. He peers closer and notices that by some strange coincidence it is a copy of some rather competent poetry by Ptolemy he'd read recently, exploring how the study of stars offers a path to understand the divine. The person Crawley's stolen this from must have good taste. The handwriting itself is less than stellar, but it is a start. As he walks absentmindedly away from the fire, unexpected joy bubbles in his mind. It wouldn't, after all, be so great a loss, would it? And maybe, he decides, the fiend isn't as foul as he told himself. But it's okay. This must be, he realizes now with a start, one of those ineffable things only God could understand, and decides to worry about it no more.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Aaymeirah as part of the Good Omens Summer Gift Exchange! I hope you like it! Thank you for your broad ask, I hope I delivered!
> 
> This one was a challenge to me because I wasn't sure about writing Beez and Gabe, but I hope I made their dynamic funny as well as adversarial.
> 
> If the library in Alexandria burning had been the work of anything other than his side, I feel like Aziraphale would have had to stop it, so I got it into my head he must have been ordered to let it happen. But thankfully Crawley (before the name change) is there to perk him up. And me, so I didn't have to be sad about it. LOL


End file.
